


a courtship in three parts

by Dandybear



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Don't mind me rewriting canon, F/F, F/M, Marriage Proposal, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 21:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20459702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandybear/pseuds/Dandybear
Summary: three connected fics outlying a courtshippart two of three: kira endures





	a courtship in three parts

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so this isn't a one shot because it's technically in the same cinematic universe as two other fics I'm working on, so I'm mashing them together. AND NO, I AM not posting part one first because it's the longest. I am posting in the wee hours of the morning again, so you know this is unbeta'd. All mistakes belong to me. 
> 
> This part was inspired by Rocks and Shoals mostly, because holy shit.

She’s slept in refugee centers, and in caves. She’s slept in trees, exposed to the elements and waiting for a blast or a bullet to end her life. She’s slept on floors and benches, catching enough just to replenish the energy lost and give her that second-third-fourth wind. She’s burned the midnight oil, run for days on fumes. She’s done it because she’s had to, and she’s done it because it was that or death.

Then, she won her rest. According to some politicians who washed her off and gave her a rank.

Sleeping in actual beds was torture at first. Too quiet. Too soft. Decadence deprived her of rest. She’d stare at the ceiling and wait for morning, watching seconds tick away. She’d get up and replicate herself jellies, bonbons, the kind of frivolous whims she’d fantasize about in those holes, in the trees waiting for death.

This is what she won. All those years fighting and now she sleeps with a full belly and a safe back. 

But, that decadence was nothing in comparison to a full belly and a full bed. To waking up sandwiched between the languid coolness of Jadzia Dax, and the soft heat of Worf Rozhenko. They’re perfect in slumber. Her aliens. There for her to enjoy at her leisure. She can bury her nose in the banded fur of Worf’s chest, or in the soft hairs at the back of Jadzia’s neck, committing their scents to memory. They’re a part of her home now. A part of rest. Saltwater smell clings to Jadzia, because she dries out without bathing in it. Worf smells fairer than other Klingons--or at least the warriors on the station. They all reek of ichor, blood heavy on their lips. Worf smells of baked earth and a flower native to his home. It’s in an oil he combs into his hair before bed. Sometimes she’ll take the comb from him and brush his waves smooth and fluffy. Jadzia doesn’t let her do this, very particular about her own haircare. Her own hair requires little maintenance, raising with her agitation, but otherwise laying flat.

Scent is how the other Bajorans know Worf and Jadzia are off limits. They’ve all blended together, smudging around the edges, until she can’t see where she ends and where they begin. It’s not Starfleet appropriate, and it’s not like her other lovers. It’s not just about blowing off steam after a battle.

It’s about Jadzia’s hand finding the curve of her waist, even if they’re just sitting and talking. It’s about Worf’s humming rumbling his chest against her ear on those lazy days when they don’t bother leaving the bed. Or, it’s about being awoken with kisses and fresh raktajino, sharing morning showers. 

She didn’t mean for it to be a permanent thing, or an ownership thing, but she’s territorial and they are  _ hers _ . So, when Jadzia proposes, Kira freezes but her mouth gets ahead of her and says,  _ “Yes, yes, I will _ .” (Because they all might die, or half might die, and then she won’t be beholden to anything.)

And, Worf looks at the two of them with big, wet eyes, and nods. 

Just like that.

_ “We could kidnap you, make you a prisoner of the Federation,”  _ Jadzia suggests, because for their plan to work she needs to stay on the station. She needs to hold the line, even as they’re pushed back.

And she watches the way Worf pushes his lips together to hold back what he wants to say, and she fantasizes for a moment, of being taken with them. Of abandoning her post to join the Federation so that she can be with her loves.

Instead, she thinks about all of the times she’s admired the panes of their backs as they leave through the shuttle bay, hesitating as they go.

It’s a running theme of her life, watching the people she loves leave.

But, Kira Nerys is betrothed. She is spoken for. And, when all of this is over and the station is back in Federation hands she’ll have the first Bajoran-Trill-Klingon wedding, in at least this part of the sector, and they’ll turn their little haven into a wedding bed. They will be criminally decadent, and she will help herself to second and third helpings of Kira Worf and Kira Jadzia.

But, for now, she’s fighting a silent war. It’s different this time. Instead of pits, caves, and trees, she wakes up every day with her face in a pillow. The pillows that lose Jadzia’s water and Worf’s earth scents each passing day. She wakes up to Worf’s alarm, the one she can’t bring herself to turn off, because what if that makes it unreal? What if all the scraps of them left behind disappear and it was all just a wonderful dream? There’s no Jadzia to cuddle, no mass of limb and mouth to lose herself to pleasure in. 

No, instead she's burying her nose in a purple robe left behind and working a hand between her legs the old fashioned way.

(Jadzia rarely wears anything to bed, and when she does, it's a scrap of silk easily shucked up or off. Kira can feel the coolness of her curves pressing her into the mattress. Jadzia's hand snakes between Kira's legs, fingers moving between circles and diagonal lines. They dart between entrance and pleasure points, lazy, but determined. Kira's used to keeping quiet, not to alert roommate or guard, but Jadzia always manages to drag yips, yowls, and whimpers from her lips. She pants, open mouthed, grinding herself back onto Jadzia's hardness, trying to tease her back. Jadzia's greedy, and her resolve easy to break, so Kira can play her cards right and get fucked roughly into the pillows most mornings. Getting stroked and petted while being taken from behind, or from both ends, when they tempt Worf to be late.) 

Her body is used to whetting her appetites first thing. It’s part of her own internal clock. Wake up horny, because Jadzia loves morning sex, and Worf sees it as a failure of duty if he doesn’t eat them out for breakfast. 

But, she’s horny, and Gul Dukat always skulks around Ops in the morning, and she cannot ever be horny in his vicinity.

No, so long as she's on duty, that part of her body is dead. Her tail doesn't twitch or sway to attract attention. Her eyes stay steady-forward, she locks her posture. She moves stiffly, nods her head, and wears her thickest boots.

And, with every thought, she fantasizes about slashing his neck and watching him bleed out. 

Her bed will be the only softness left. 

It will be her safe haven and her prison, because it reminds her of how she’s allowed herself to become docile. To become shackled. Kindness tamed her in a way oppression never could. Now she sees, how easy it is not to fight back when it’s her full belly on the line. When she’s not being crushed down with Cardassian boots, but being handed coffee in the morning by one.

(Coffee. Not raktajino, not the way Worf makes it. It’s not home. It’s an occupation.)

The shades of grey have blended together too well, and now she needs to pull her head back to see the big picture. To see the darkest darks and the lightest lights. Dark, Dukat. Light, Ziyal.

Ziyal is an innocent. She reaches for Kira because it’s love she’s been deprived of all these years. And, Kira can’t. She has to hold back. Because, Dukat cannot get ideas about the three of them making a new family unit.

“Come on, Nerys, I know I wouldn’t be the first alien to warm your bed,” he tries to coax her.

Fear and rage and disgust distort her features, because  _ that’s private _ , he is not allowed to dirty her intimate life by knowing about it.

“What, you’re a public figure, do you think I haven’t been keeping tabs on your personal life? Tell me, is it true what they say about Klingon men?” he holds out two fingers just to be disgusting.

“That’s none of your business,” her voice shakes.

“I’m not judging you, Major. If anything, I admire you making a harem of other species, it’s very Cardassian of you.”

“Is that how your wife feels?” she asks him.

Then, she leaves before she guts him with her bare hands, whole body shaking with rage until Rom finds her, still shuddering in a maintenance hall.

“I should’ve left with them,” she says, aware that she’s lost a few hours and Jake is looking at her with concern. She sets down the glass of juice they’ve given her and wraps her tail up and over her lap.

“But, I couldn’t, because we need to be here to fight,” she sighs, “I’m not fighting. Not doing enough.”

The chant of  _ collaborator  _ in her head keeps getting louder and louder.

Her bed doesn’t smell like home anymore. It smells like her own stale fear sweat. It smells of sickness. It smells like the caves where her father and brother died.

The alarm goes off at 0500 and Worf starts nosing his way between her legs, he kisses a path from navel to clits, always starting with her, because Jadzia hates to be woken up, but loves rousing to Kira’s moans.

The alarm goes off at 0500 and Odo cannot be trusted.

The alarm goes off at 0500 and she’s taken to hiding a poison pill in a secret pocket again.

The alarm goes off at 0500 and it doesn’t matter because she hasn’t slept anyway.

They have Rom.

If she’s going to die, she’ll die a rebel, she’ll die a straight line from her birth to her death. She’s Kira Nerys, and she always thought she’d give her life for the cause anyway. She’s Kira Nerys, and she’s breaking her betrothal by being executed. The thought causes her stomach and heart to switch places. She hopes the supplemental journals she left for Worf and Jadzia find them, and that they bring comfort, context, to her final days. She hopes they know how much she loved them.

She hopes they haven’t forgotten her and run off together.

But, Kira had no hopes for Ziyal, and when the dust settles, she finds herself at her side. Staring at this child, this almost-sister. This life she fought tooth and claw for, snuffed out.

All the other fanfare dies down, drowned out by the blood pounding in her ears. She failed. She failed Ziyal and failed Yassim.

There are voices and then cold hands on her neck, on her cheeks. She can’t see or hear, but she can feel. She can feel dry lips pressing against her temple, and she can smell saltwater. Warm hands find her hips, pulling her back against a solid chest.

_ “Nerys.” _

The spell is broken. Life bleeds back into her, and she turns her head to kiss Jadzia, tasting light and life again. She mewls, dragging Worf’s head down to nuzzle noses.

She embraces Sisko and Miles, she ruffles Julian’s hair, all on the victory march back to their quarters.

Then, she’s sitting on their bed, staring at her own reflection as personal affects are moved about, like no time has past.

“Jadzia, my favourite shirt--”

“It’s in my bag.”

“Nerys, have you eaten?”

Kira shakes her head.

“Are you hungry?”

She shrugs.

“Is it okay for me to touch you?”

“Don’t stop touching me,” Kira says.

And, they stop what they’re doing to stroke her cheeks and undress her. The catsuit comes off, and the uniforms come off, and she can’t speak, but she can lose herself in welcoming them home. Her tongue traces a path along Jadzia’s spots, and she pauses, pressing a kiss over her pouch, smiling as she feels Dax squirm in delight.

Worf runs a palm down her back, following the faint trail of red hair from her neck to her tail. Her own hands palm the ridges and bumps on the plates of his chest and back. 

They breathe together, a cooling pile after release. Worf shifts, sliding his arm under their necks, and Jadzia plays with Kira’s fingers.

“I thought you might not come back,” Kira says.

“We always would have,” Jadzia’s eyes are soft and worried.

“If we had lived to,” Worf says pointedly.

Kira swears and glances at Jadzia, “Did you almost die again?”

“Only a little bit, just enough to tell a good story.”

“I don’t want to hear it, I want to hear that you’re going to be careful, because I just got you back,” Kira pulls Jadzia closer, feeling both annoyed and relieved.

“And you, did you do anything incredibly stupid?” she looks up at Worf to be met with the intensity of his adoration.

“I reconciled with my son. I’d like you to meet him before the wedding.”

“Shit, the wedding, that feels like a lifetime ago,” Kira says, smiling at a kiss Worf presses to her neck.

“Lucky you,” Jadzia snorts.

Worf huffs, “Actually, since I have both of you here, I’d like to show you the choreography I’ve developed for our vows. I did some research and found a set of vows for a plural marriage dating back to the 8th dynasty--”

Jadzia groans loudly, “This is what you missed.”

“I’m going to have to learn how to fight with one of those incredibly cumbersome stabby things aren’t I?” Kira asks.

“The Bat’Leth is quite a cumbersome blade, it’s why I consider it poor suited for battle, but since it is a ceremony--”

“What?! Bat’Leths are great for battle,” Jadzia gets up on one elbow, mightily offended.

“It leaves you wide open to attack! You’re too slow to dodge anything that isn’t a fucking Bat’Leth.”

Kira dissolves into giggles, dam of relief breaking, and her own hysteria catching up now that the threat has abated.

“The wedding is off, I cannot believe I almost married two heretics.”

**Author's Note:**

> bat'leths are fucking stupid


End file.
